The Papers of James Heighton-Lewis
by Chaldera
Summary: An in-depth examination of his death and the mysterious circumstances surrounding it, including the journals of his life. (Arkham Publishing Ltd., with kind permission from the Heighton-Lewis family)
1. Preface

Concerning the strange circumstances which surround the death of noted scholar James Heighton-Lewis, little more can be said that the public is not already aware of. At 6:32pm on 22nd March 1936, a strangled cry was heard by his maid emanating from his study. Attempts at entry proved unsuccessful, resulting in calls to local police and ambulance services who, upon arrival at his country manor, breached his study door and found Mr Heighton-Lewis dead and his body contorted in a strange fashion. A heavy oak desk had been used to bar the door shut, whilst the main bay window had been shattered inward and the curtains torn down. Upon closer inspection and autopsy, it was discovered that Mr Heighton-Lewis had suffered several bone breakages prior to death, although the cause of death was ultimately never determined. Evidence for excessive morphine levels were also found within his cadaver, along with several vials stored within his desk. After several weeks of interviewing, police deemed the case unsolved and allowed it to fade into the annals of history as yet another unsolved mystery.

What wasn't revealed to the public, however, was the existence of several papers apparently written by Mr Heighton-Lewis. These papers, recently released by kind permission of the Heighton-Lewis family and currently on display at the Miskatonic University Museum patronised by the late scholar, seemed an attempt at documenting the deceased's life; their content however seems at times fantastical and, if true, boundless in their promises of knowledge to various scientific communities. So far, none have taken these writings seriously, seeing them instead as attempts at creative literature by an aging author, or else inventive symbolism to disguise less-than-appropriate events for a man of such status and renown.

These writings have been collated into this publication to allow the public access to a case that has eluded investigators for many years. It is hoped by the authors that the use of crowd-sourcing may allow light to be shed upon the mystery, and in so doing finally solve what has gained notoriety as one of the most infamous events in recent British history.

_NOTE: Where appropriate, notes shall be added at the end of the entries by the editors._


	2. Of Early Childhood

My last hour will soon be upon me, leading thus to this endeavour to try and prevent any from following in my footsteps and calling upon themselves a fate similar to mine. These pages shall serve as my last testament to a life of luxury whose tragedy belies an inexorable horror that, I fear, has held a tenebrous grip upon me for far longer than I have ever known, perhaps even at my very birth. Thusly, these memoirs shall aid me also in finding any dark influences that I may have missed from the initial. Due to my rather tenuous and distressing position, I write through a dysmorphic mental haze fuelled by morphine and other more discreet and less reputable substances; for without these I most assuredly would have succumbed to insanity and all manner of diseases, both physical and mental, which pursue the weak and the damned. Therefore, there is little doubt that some inconsistencies or misremembrances will exist within my recollections, and for this I apologise and hope that whoever reads this will forgive my weakness and reliance upon such distasteful medicines as surely as they will understand their necessity.

I was born, such as I know, on the 22nd March 1876 on a ferry carrying my parents back from Calais. My arrival caused such stir among friends and family that before even our return to the family manor in Solshurst (a small town in Kent situated not far from Hythe), a small crowd had already gathered outside to welcome the latest addition to the Heighton-Lewis family. Named after my great-grandfather on my father's side, I was the sole child and heir of a small fortune and business to be inherited upon the deaths of my beloved parents. One such death marred the afterglow of my birth, as my mother sadly perished of unknown complications from the stress of delivering a baby. Father was devastated and never fully recovered from her demise, and indeed I suspect he secretly resented me for having left him bereft of his one true love. I cannot say I ever held such against him however, for even then I felt some twinge as of a future pain expected, as if I sensed that my life would yet cause some further tragedy to befall another such undeserving soul; further to this, my father never let his resentment govern his decisions, and I would not have known of it were it not for some glimmer in his eye when he found me wanting of punishment for disobedience or else reckless, childish behaviour.

In order to keep an eye on me whilst he ran his exportation business (one of the first to stop dealing in slavery when such a thing was still a raging issue, and thus was judged a more ethical and popular firm of choice), Pater employed a nanny who was equally skilled in administering both a fair and judgemental hand when needed; for even before Lorenz and his ilk, Pater knew of the need for a softer female hand in my development. A private tutor was also brought in to lecture me in the world, and for company I had local boys of both farmers and more privileged people. Thus were my childhood years spent in the summers of youth, and my happiest days were mostly then; for such is the innocence and joy of life's early spring 'ere the mind wanders to paths more corrupt and of ill repute and sweet naivety. And so it was on the day of my tenth year that a new family moved in.


	3. An Angel's Arrival

This family were the Johnstones. They were numbered five, that of a mother, father, two sons and a daughter. The parents and two sons appeared of similar stock; squat, dark of hair- and eye-colour, of working-class and evident of some degeneracy judging by their shifty gaze and generally unkempt appearance. It is the daughter, however, who proved to be of something far greater.

It is said among my contemporaries involved in the developing field of eugenics that even a familial line replete with inbreeding and foul degenerate acts might produce a being of remarkable characteristics just as it has been observed that some African families with a history of breeding with white men has produced children of fair skin and hair. And so it was that this daughter served as early proof for what the eugenicists still theorise over even now. For she was of remarkable charm, looks and demeanour than being grouped with such a family as hers should ever reward. Where their skin was olive-coloured, hers was of a fairness approaching the fluff atop a dandelion, with freckles dappling her cheeks in the most darling of ways. Where their eyes were a muddy brown, hers were a clear crystal blue of such quality that Leonardo himself would paint her picture then weep, convinced that he could not capture such flawless perfection. Her hair was of a fiery red of the type few possess, curls burning with a passion for life that I have never known amongst any before or since her arrival within my life. And her personality! a match made in heaven for her great beauty! A charm like no other, with all emotions in equal parts of one another and possessed with an exuberance that roused one's own feeble feelings and convinced them to act as one. Her kindness, her sweetness, her innocence, her love were all of angelic quality; joy and sorrow, anger and laughter, fear and longing, outrage, embarrassment; all were as the sun and the moon, night and day, light and dark; without one, the other did not exist, and both were equally beautiful and endearing and entirely worthy of worship by even the greatest of individuals, for within her gaze all felt humbled. And this creature's name, this delightfully delicious faerie's title, was Elizabeth, or Lizzie for short.

"How do you do? MY name is Elizabeth, but you can call me Lizzie. What's yours?" Even now, I remember these first words to me and smile, for such was her power o'er me. Even her voice differed greatly from her family, for her soft, lilting voice held a sweetness and laughter entirely apart from that of her parents or her brothers, and her working-class accent was somehow new where theirs was set in, as if she had only recently begun speaking as such.

I remember I stammered when first I spoke to her, for such thoughts ran through my head that I found myself confounded and unsure of myself. Could I, a mere child and the only son of a widowed businessman, be even allowed to be seen talking to this otherworldly girl whose loveliness far outshone all others? I recall looking around uncertainly, as if she may be talking to someone else in the large field near my home where she found me, as if we weren't alone. She giggled at my obvious confusion, a sound so intoxicating that I truly fell for her in that moment, and took my hand so she could show me to her family. At this I dimly know that they told me their names, and that they were nice enough people, but I never referred to her parents beyond "Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone" and her brothers as "you two", for her brothers never left one another's side despite their age (one was 16, the other 18) and showed great anxiety when apart. Such anxiety was also seen often upon her parents' faces, although when I expressed concern over this to Lizzie she merely laughed it off and said "It's alright, they've always been like that, ever since I knew them". And at that, my concerns did vanish, although now I look back and find her phrasing and her family's behaviours odd. Is it possible that they knew something about her difference from them, something which they chose to withhold out of fear? I have since tried to contact them, but no trace can be found of them, nor can I remember their names; a pity, for perhaps they could have helped in the later disasters that befell us.


	4. A Goodbye Kiss

The Johnstones stayed in Solshurst for four years before finally departing on my fourteenth birthday. Both of our families had grown close, and so the announcement of their departure two weeks before had drawn a damper within both households, leaving even Lizzie less cheerful than usual. We had grown ever closer since our first meeting, with us developing through our teenage years at a similar rate both physically and mentally despite Lizzie's greater maturity of one year. During this time, Lizzie had grown ever more radiant and beautiful, with her short red curls developing into a reddish-brown waterfall cascading down her neck and shoulders and framing her freckled, pale face in the most luscious of lights. Her figure, too, had begun its development into what promised to be a fine, feminine shape of proportions men would gladly kill for. As for myself, my own dark hair had grown thick but still maintained control within all but the most difficult of situations, and I found myself growing leaner and broader with every day. A light fuzz too had already begun to sprout upon my jaw, and so Pater had already begun to teach me to shave and carry out the tasks a gentleman must to ensure prim and proper appearance in public.

My academic tutelage, too, proved promising. My tutor believed my skills in Literature and Language, my deep understanding of Classics and History and my keen, incisive mind demanded no less than attendance at the top establishments when the time came, and I too found myself nervous over thoughts of attending a place as fine as Cambridge or Oxford or, perhaps, even the Institute in nearby Solfirth where my tutor had briefly taken me to read in their vast library (widely considered the greatest collection of pre-16th Century literature within the Isles). With such talent, he often found little left to teach before the week was up, and so would allow me leave to explore what little I had not in the fields surrounding the estate, or else journey to town and 'take in the sights'.

And so it was one of those days that Lizzie took me to the little marsh beyond the field on the morning of the 16th March 1890, six days before my birthday. This little marsh, nicknamed Shuck's Crossing by the locals, was often left unexplored by others due to both its treacherous paths and the local legends of the Black Shuck said to haunt there. We therefore found ourselves alone on our favourite fallen tree, sat looking over a particular marsh pool where we both swore we had seen a large black dog dash across and often waited for its return.

"It's not fair that we have to leave," Lizzie pouted, "We've been here so long, and I don't want to have to make new friends." Her characteristic good humour seemed missing until a passing frog chirped, then leapt into the pool with a large splash that showered droplets on our faces. At that we both giggled, and her spirits seemed renewed. I answered her "But it's always good to make new friends," my voice reassuring despite my own dislike of the situation "And you can always come back here on a holiday and we can see each other again." Truthfully, I did not want her to leave, for she had become as much a part of my life as clothing or speech; to live without seemed savage, disgusting and quite simply wrong.

It was at this that we were quiet for a while, as happens with close friends who have said all that need be said. Then she turned to me, and I looked at her and saw tears glittering unshed in her eyes, and so I sidled toward her and hugged her, and she returned it and there we sat, clinging for dear life with such tightness that not even the Black Shuck itself could tear us apart with its spectral jaws. After several minutes of this, we broke apart, and she looked down at me. She smiled, and with a single delicate movement she wiped some stray tear drops that had fallen during our embrace.

And kissed me.

This kiss was the first I had ever received from a non-family member. It was but a peck on the lips, as one would visit upon a relative, but to me this kiss was as the boom of thunder or the smell of gunpowder; a portent of things both fair and foul, kind and terrible, wonderful and cruel. That single contact proved enough to drive my mind wild with desire for her, both animalistic and noble, for such are the flavours of love. She meant more than anything else in that moment, and were I a lesser man even then I have no doubt that I would have followed love's lesser child lust and taken her for my own. As it was, I merely sat there, utterly beside myself with joy and grief, for here was my soul mate with love's confession and she was to be taken from me within six days time. To have a birthday celebration then seemed unthinkable, and I remember I mourned her imminent disappearance in the days leading up to my birthday, and I cried when no one else was looking. But, on that day, I merely sat and watched her slowly walk through the marsh back to her parents, overwhelmed by feelings for which I could only attribute the names provided by Byron, Shelley and Shakespeare. For it was then that I understood Shelley's lament when he wrote -

"See the mountains kiss high heaven,

And the waves clasp one another,

No sister-flower should be forgiven,

If it disdained its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea:

What is all this sweet work worth

If thou kiss not me?"

_Editor's note: this poem extract is the second verse of Percy Bysshe Shelley's 1820 poem 'Love's Philosophy'. Black Shuck's Crossing was drained and converted into farmland in 1912, then used for military purposes in 1914. The area is still under military jurisdiction._


	5. Humble Beginnings

Following the departure of Lizzie and her family went my much of my socialising with the local youths as my tutor continued his lessons with a renewed vigour as he began to introduce me to newer, harder topics. Gone were the days of Homer, Plato and Sophocles; in their place lay Virgil, Tacitus and Juvenal. Also included, with his surprisingly accurate belief of where my interests would ultimately lay, were the works of Kant, Hume and Berkeley, to name but a few of the psychological authors he introduced to me to help foster my growing desire to understand the human mind. He sought to help me specialise early for when the time to came to advance further in education, and in that I surely did.

As the years passed, my lust for knowledge over the non-physical matters that governed our actions (for I was then and now rooted in the belief that Descartes was correct and the mind is separate to the body and unquantifiable) grew ever more potent, and eventually even my tutor grew insufficient to the task. More staff were brought in by my father to help aid my lessons so that I would be sufficiently prepared to attend the Institute, and they too brought to my attention new and marvellous instructions which whetted my appetite to learn more. Looking back, I suspect I may have used my education as a surrogate for my attentions, to prevent me from thinking much of Lizzie and what I had lost. An enviable experience, to be sure, and one that had benefitted me until of late, but of what may have changed had she never moved or else some other entered my life and entranced me at that point I cannot guess; such a different life may have branched toward a happier conclusion than mine most assuredly follows now. To think of how such things can be, that a crossroads may beckon at every instance whose paths follow very different routes, and whose ends may not be seen til we, the weary traveller, are but upon the final bend; it is assuredly some cosmic joke! or would I think such, if not for my scant knowledge now of the cosmos and the true horrors that we pretend not to notice clawing at the edge of perception.

As it was, one of these extra teachers introduced me to another topic which soon would dominate my life and propel me toward my now-inevitable end; the study of cults and occult texts. Such a subject was unusual to say the least, and the work required much in the way of study and research, but it proved a challenge and a distraction like no other. My teacher in this field was one M.F. Mayweather, although the initials I only gathered from the frequent packages that arrived for him, and never was I to learn what they stood for. A striking man, he stood at over six foot and was black with a depth of colour that I had never seen on any individual outside of woodcuts and drawings of the "Black Man" who converted witches at Salem. I recall asking him at our first meeting where he was from to be of such dark colouring, and received a sharp slap of such power that a baby tooth dislodged itself and would have choked me were it not for another slap from Mr. Mayweather on my back. After this, I never asked of his personal life again, and thus a mystery surrounded him which perplexes and hints at dark truths that even now I shudder to guess at. From what little I could gather from other staff, he never socialised with anyone, nor was ever seen leaving his room except to teach my lessons and for occasional trips to town, whereupon he'd return with large bags filled with bottles and jars containing foul-smelling liquids whose identity none could guess but filled all with a deep, unexplainable dread. Few had ever heard him speak more than a single word of greeting, and he avoided bodily contact at all costs. What others had heard from him came from mumblings that occasionally penetrated the walls of his room, and whilst none would divulge what they heard, at mention of this their eyes would cast downward and the more religious would make the sign of the cross and leave, whilst others would merely find excuse to seek out the nearest alcoholic beverage and avoid all discussion over the topic.

And so my lessons ran with Mr. Mayweather bringing a text every session and asking me in a quiet, deep rumble to read the section outlined aloud and then provide my interpretation. Such tutelage proved surprisingly effective, and even now I recall certain pages whose descriptions of what may exist beyond the aetherial voids are gloriously horrible if true. From references to a far-off city of dreams guarded by jealous gods to that shifting chaos that is Azathoth, the gateway and the key, all proved truly terrible and warped my dreams with visions of foul abominations swimming in foetid ichor beneath impossible angles of such twisted designs that seemed inhuman and changed with every view. But worse of all, amid these dreams I would glimpse now and again the figure of Mr. Mayweather, except clad with robes of yellow silk and a headdress akin to that of a Pharaoh of Egypt. And indeed, I now have suspicions that Mayweather was not all he seemed, for why else did his eyes glitter such and a smile appear when I read of the Crawling Chaos who tempts mortals with his dark gifts, he to whom Salem referred when they spoke of the Black Man; the Haunter of the Dark of Aborigine myth, he who walked amid the Celts as the Green Man and the ancient Turks as the Skinless One, and of whom fragments have been found in the Americas as the dark gods Xipe Totec and Tezcatlipoca; he whom his true followers name Nyarlathotep, for littles else is so close to his true, unspeakable title. If my theories are true, then dark indeed must the muffled words heard by other staff have been, and it is truly a blessing of their ignorance or shunning of such primordial things that they're lives have not been made as empty and devoid of hope as mine has; perhaps some intelligence does look out for us, somewhere within the great voids between stars where nameless things writhe and seethe with unknown intentions.

What stood out most, however, from these sessions was Mr. Mayweather's insistence toward one particular entity described by his texts (precious few of which I have found existing elsewhere). This being had apparently reigned only briefly over our planet when we were but denizens of the deep. Little more was mentioned, and no name was given beyond that of The Encroaching Light. An illustration accompanied this fragment, that of an inky black void lacking in detail save that of a single star-like light shining forth, as if some beacon within the dark. I found myself mesmerised by the image, so poignant in its beauty did it seem, and when I asked of it to Mr. Mayweather, he only laughed and replied "None have ever seen it's true face…so difficult to reach and yet so beautiful, like a bonfire gazed from afar. But who knows what lit the fire, or else shelters in its warmth?" At that he instructed me to copy the fragment and its picture down, then bade me leave for the rest of the day. After this, I took the scrap I had used for copying and left it on my bedside table to greet me every morning and wish me goodnight. With memory's cruel tricks and my later experiences, I could swear that at times the light would seem to change position slightly, such as if the picture were a photograph and it moved closer toward the camera, but even I suspect that to be of the mind's never-ceasing follies…or else I was damned long before my fateful decision several years ago, and my life already forfeit to its blasphemous will.

_Editor's note: Xipe Totec and Tezcatlipoca were both prominent deities within Aztec mythology. There is some limited evidence that suggests that both were in fact differing avatars of one single god, and certain researchers into cults and occult matters (such as the now infamous _Necronomicon_) believe that they are manifestations of the same Natural phenomenon (currently believed to be an extended period of total solar eclipse) that resulted in the manifestation of these primal myths, including that of Nyarlathotep. However, the assertions made here by Heighton-Lewis are not supported nor echoed by any reputable scholars into these fields._


	6. An Education

AN: To "Demon Lord" and "Public-Cockblocker", thank you for reading and taking the time to review. I'm only sorry I didn't have this chapter out sooner, but I should hopefully have this story moving again soon enough. I hope this continues to be interesting and well worth the read.

* * *

Thanks to the efforts of my tutors over the years, I was able to effortlessly pass the entrance exam which so distinguished the Solfirth Institute from its contemporaries, and thus was shortly attending the illustrious institution. My years there proved remarkable to the professors. They found within me a fully able and learned pupil who, even with his wealthy background, was both confident enough to support his arguments with skilled reasoning and yet humble enough to admit to his own ignorance and mistakes. Or at least that is how I see my time there. I have little doubt that the modesty of youth has since been replaced by the self-assurance of age, and thus may I have imbued my experiences with more positivity and self-promotion than they may otherwise deserve. It is surely either a symptom of the human condition or else a sign of British mentality that even now, close as I am to my own apportioned fate, I may show some thin veneer of humour in my writings, and also apologise to whoever finds these pages for my immodesty. How very droll, that my final days are spent looking at how I must seem to those whom I shall never meet.

I will not detail my time at the Institute too greatly, as evidence of my successes there may be found within my published essays on "Cultish Behaviours and the Mentality that Surrounds their Practitioners", "Psychoses of the Occult" and my most famous early book "Possession: A Psychoanalytical Discussion which Seeks to Pinpoint, Excise and Analyse the Internal Mechanisms which the Unconscious Promotes". Such efforts raised my name to a near household level among occultists, psychologists and even a fair portion of the general public, and also netted me a tidy sum which greatly supported the production of my second book "Occult Texts and the Role they play in Distorting Our Perceptions". Such work required my reading of these texts, for which I learnt many languages in order to read these texts in their original setting. Thus did I discover the mysteries within the copy of _Unaussprechlichen Kulten_ existing at the Institute within its original German, and travel to the Miskatonic at Arkham to read their copies of the Pnakotic Manuscripts and _De Vermis Mysteriis_. I was even able, with a great deal of negotiation, to read the now-infamous _Necronomicon_ at the British Museum and supplement the notes I had scribbled during my brief perusal at the Miskatonic's library.

Also included in this work was what I could remember from the lessons of Mr. Mayweather. Unfortunately, as previously mentioned, despite my best efforts very few of the volumes which he showed to me were found to exist anywhere excluding his collection; I could not consult Mr. Mayweather's collection either, as he had left the house once my entrance into the Institute was confirmed. I therefore had little surprise when, shortly after the release of my book, letters arrived asking about where I had found these texts and why it was that very little of their knowledge was known to researchers despite my clear quotations from their pages and the titles that I provided. What did prove confusing, however, was one envelope, written in an odd, cramped and somewhat messy style, as if the author was not used to writing. The words penned in this bizarre fashion read "The Pupil", and within was the picture of that bizarre being whose image I had drawn for Mr. Mayweather that one afternoon. I remember asking the porter of my university residence if he had seen who had delivered the letter, but he replied that he had seen nothing all morning and heard naught save the faint suggestion of a swishing sound as of silk sliding against itself.

The rest of my time at the Institute proved uneventful, and my labours proved fruitful when I graduated with full honours from the establishment and was subsequently asked to stay on as a professor for Occult Studies and thus replace the current occupant, a kindly old man whose health had suddenly taken a turn for the worse following an unexpected attack of pneumonia. Such luck at the expense of my previous teacher proved too irresistible, and I accepted the position with all enticing benefits therein provided. The older professor suffered for a while, shrieking at his children of some unseen creature who tormented him and drove his wife to madness with insane chattering and whispers of what lay beneath his hideous mask. The night the old man finally expired on 17th December 1899, locals claimed that a large, bald, black man whose face was obscured by some strange dog-like mask was seen exiting the ex-professor's house, accompanied by an unidentifiable smell that brought to the mind images of some far-off abandoned city beside some giant, misty lake whose pristine and tranquil beauty belied a far more disturbing and horrifying reality. Whether this man was truly real, or else some imaginative creation of the uneducated and superstitious, I cannot comment. All I can say is that such an impression, so specific in its particulars, hints at the interests of those whose motive are of decidedly unknown depth, and whose agents serve as mortal instruments for designs far greater and more terrible than any human may imagine. However, such conjecture is fruitless. Perhaps the city was not lost Carcosa whose dim song echoes over the shores of Lake Hali where it rests 'neath the gaze of its twin suns and many moons; perhaps this man was not the incomprehensible King In Yellow but was instead imagined up by some dim-witted or else lore-inspired individual, or even some prankster with an eye for cruel jokes. This is certainly what I hope occurred.

_Editor's note: Mr. Heighton-Lewis' bibliography for "Occult Texts and the Role they Play in Distorting Our Perceptions" (_pub. 1898_) lists the following as source material for his research: the _Necronomicon (An image of the laws of The Dead)_, the _Pnakotic Manuscripts_, _De Vermis Mysteriis (Mysteries of the Worm)_, _Unaussprechlichen Kulten (Nameless Cults)_,_ The King In Yellow_, _Eloquia Deos (The words of the gods), LesServiteursperdus (The Lost Servants), Mizungu Wakazi (Conjuring Residents) _and _Der Hellste Dunkelheit (The Brightest Darkness). _Of__ these __works, only the _Necronomicon, Pnakotic Manuscripts, De Vermis Mysterii, Unaussprechlichen Kulten _and_ The King In Yellow _are__ confirmed __to__ exist__. The__ rest __are__ believed __either to have been either fraudulent works made by Mr. Heighton-Lewis' former teacher, or else created by Mr. Heighton-Lewis (either consciously or unconsciously)._


	7. The Return

Excluding these hints of some darker presence behind my current success, my professorship proved successful and certainly rewarding. I found myself inundated with accolades and praise by my fellows in the field despite their initial misgivings regarding my source materials, and I soon cultivated an excellent network of friendships within many diverse scientific, literary and even business-related fields. My popularity with the public, whilst not as high since the publishing of my first book, proved still enough that I would be occasionally called upon for interviews within scientific publications and newspapers, or else asked to participate in various ceremonies. I even received occasional invites from the clergy for assistance in exorcisms, although I only accepted a few of these invitations on account of my dislike for the pomposity that often surrounded such circumstances.

My personal life, however, proved less fulfilling. I had some brief dalliances with the opposite sex, although none proved sufficient to fill the void I unconsciously felt within. Furthermore, my family life ended in 1900 after the death of my father from natural causes. I remember I lived the two weeks immediately proceeding in a haze of grief and shock and found little joy in anything that had previously delighted me. I daresay even the inheritance of his business and the family's considerable fortune proved little comfort, for what is the value of gold paid in blood? I did have sense enough to ask Pater's old board of directors to deal with the firm, for I have always had little understanding when it came to business and financial matters, and thus allowed the "old guard" to earn a sizable retainer for their trouble whilst I reaped what financial benefits remained. I shall mention little more of this from now on though, for Pater's death still affects me so even when sober of mind, and whilst under the influence of these loathsome chemicals I find myself driven to thoughts of utter anguish and sorrow, and am thus compelled to move on.

And so by the summer of 1904 I had blossomed into a wealthy 28 year old bachelor of great learning and background, all backed up by an admittedly impressive academical career. By mid-summer 1905, I would be married. For it was in the July of 1904 that Lizzie Johnstone returned to my life and graced me with her presence once more.

It was July 15th on an especially hot afternoon. I had no classes to teach, but was stirred into travelling to the old family manor (legally mine in accordance with Pater's will) by a fit of nostalgic desire to relive the years of my youth. Thus did I find myself venturing out across the fields behind the manor until I arrived at Shuck's Crossing, the old marsh where the fateful kiss between Lizzie and myself had occurred. Now overgrown, the marsh was still somewhat recognisable, and soon I had navigated the familiar path through the bogs and perched once more upon the mossy log that had served as mine and Lizzie's seat for four summers. The air was thick still with the marshy vapours that smelt of decay mingled with the faint waft of dumped manure; the pools still teemed and bubbled with life, and fungi still encompassed all. Even the oddly-shaped stones that Lizzie and I had used in childish games still lay scattered about as if naught had changed and time had not passed. Here was childhood, here was my youth; all contained in sensations and sights and smells which conjured up such wonderful associations as only I could understand. Those who have visited the places that populated their childhood will know when I say that it is not a feeling which may ever be truly described, for it is entirely subjective.

"How do you do? MY name is Elizabeth, but you can call me Lizzie. What's yours?" At that, my reverie was broken and I started so suddenly that I nearly slipped into the quagmire which lay before me. A light giggle followed that, and I turned my head to see the speaker that had frighted me thus. She stood there dressed in a fine riding jacket and trousers, knee-high riding boots protecting her from the treacherous spongy ground. A riding crop was in one china-white hand, whilst a flat cap rested on her silken reddish-brown hair. She came toward me and offered her hand. I came toward her and took her into my arms, clinging to her in an embrace which she gladly reciprocated. For it was my Lizzie Johnstone, all grown up. She had grown ever more beautiful with age, and now was a slender, graceful woman whose perfection shone ever clearer with every second. Her body had developed more since last we had met, with her feminine curves now grown more obvious but still in proportion to her slight build. Her face had lost much of its freckling, but her eyes had become ever more blue, such as I often found myself lost in them whenever we talked.

And talk we did when finally we broke apart. We moved to the log and sat there for an age discussing all that had happened since our parting. I told her of my education and occupation at the Institute, of which she had not only heard of but even read my work and pronounced it "worthwhile and highly informative, but in need of better titling". I told her of Pater's death, of which she was sorry for and had come by in part to offer condolences. And she told me of her life since then, how her parents had eventually moved to London and disappeared one night, leaving her brothers and her in the care of their neighbours, a kindly and somewhat wealthy elderly couple. Her brothers had ultimately gone into business for themselves and founded a fairly successful telegraphy company, netting themselves a tidy sum in the process. Lizzie, meanwhile, had been granted her own not-insignificant fortune following the deaths of the couple, and thus had been able to educate herself on various topics and develop her cognitive faculties to such a degree that she had become a frequent attendee and sometime-bane of various scientific conferences. She had even written a few stories under the guise of a pseudonym and thus found some success, even if such was not recognised as hers.

We spoke also of how our personal relationships following her departure, and I learnt of how she had been briefly engaged to a young inventor, but had broken it off amicably due to a realisation that "something didn't feel right". And slowly, we both came to realise that the void which had so doomed our past relationships was absent during our time together, for such is the way of love. Thus did we begin courting, which ultimately led to our engagement in the spring of 1905 and our subsequent marriage on 26th May 1905, surrounded by the friends we had cultivated throughout our time apart. Never a happier day was there to be had by either of us.


	8. All Too Brief

Together, Lizzie and I formed a remarkable team. Where her incisive and analytical mind helped my research and studies, my influence in the literary world ensured that her books could be published under her own name free of the derision which would otherwise have surely followed. In her I found a wonderful, charming, splendid and utterly divine wife, whose good-natured humour helped elevate me from even the darkest of moods. Even our worst arguments proved short-lived, for such was the infectiousness of her joy. She brought out the best in me, and for that I am in her debt.

We were eventually blessed with children, twin boys and a girl, whom we named George, Benjamin and Anne. All have grown up as best as we could manage, and for them I am also eternally grateful to my wife, for they inherited from her their charm, looks and love of life. From me, I can say that they inherited their hair and their yearning for education. I could never be happier with such children as these, and I hope that they forgive me for all that has happened since, and for my weakness.

Often would Lizzie join me when I needed to take trips out for research, and thus did she often assist me in this research. Whether we travelled to the Antarctic in search of the Eskimo cults which are said to worship ancient Elder Gods fallen from the sky, or else to the Americas to find the elusive cults who praise the name of Cthulhu in the marshes of Louisiana, or even to the Himalayas in an attempt to find the elusive plateau of Leng or Shangri-La; Lizzie always aided me in every instance and even made discoveries of her own, of which I attributed to her in my books. This lasted for many years, right until shortly after our 26th anniversary.

It was during a trip to Egypt on 17th August 1926. We had just arrived in Cairo in search of a map said to reveal the location of the fabled City of Pillars, where it is said the ancient Egyptian gods had entombed ancient lizard-like beings inside a necropolis of their own design. We were heading toward the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities, where this map was apparently left by an unknown traveller, when Lizzie was bitten by a mosquito. Normally, such a matter would be trivial, and indeed we ensured that the wound was adequately disinfected before continuing. Unfortunately though, this mosquito's bite had proven more poisonous than we first thought.

Within ten days of our search, Lizzie suddenly collapsed to the ground, convulsing wildly. We took her to a doctor, whereupon it was discovered she had contracted malaria. Her condition steadily worsened, and little could be done to cure it, so suddenly had it taken hold. Three days later, my wife passed away.

To write of the anguish I felt is difficult, for such a feeling can only be truly felt by first-hand experience. It was as if some cruel god had torn into my body and ripped my heart in two, then hastily sewn me back together. It was an ache, physically, emotionally, psychically…a wound which could not be healed nor even scabbed over. I cried endlessly for her, pining for my love to return once more, wishing that I could have her in my arms once more. At every sound I started, as if expecting her lilting laughter to wash away my pain. Even my children, my beloved sons and daughter, could not help lift my spirits, so intense was my grief. This was far beyond that of Pater's death, for so o'erwhelming was the torment that my senses grew dulled by it, and thus can I talk of it with little emotion, so spent were my tears.

I believe my sanity was loosened considerably by her death, for little else could explain my actions afterward.


	9. My Final Mistake

During this twilight of mourning, I found myself hit upon a novel notion. I had since then found more information on that entity which Mr. Mayweather had informed me of those many years ago, that being known as The Encroaching Light, and what I had found proved hopeful to my situation. According to secrets gleaned from the whispers of the terrible cults Lizzie and I had researched, this entity had the means to penetrate the veil which separates us from our lost loved ones, and could be bargained with for favours both dark and terrible. To speak with it required certain conditions which were easy to duplicate, but to do so could invite unspeakable consequences upon oneself.

Despite these warnings, I chose to try and reach this entity regardless, so swallowed was I by my grief that even scepticism and my scientific scorn for the supernatural was withheld. All I required was a large mirror, pure darkness and an image of the being. Thus, on the 9th December 1926, I ensured I was alone within my family manor. I had moved a large, floor-length mirror into my study and slipped the image of The Encroaching Light I had received in the post in between the frame and the glass, ensuring that the small star-like object remained visible. I switched off all lights within my house, shut all curtains and even wound down all clocks within the house, to ensure that no sound would disturb me. Finally, I closed the door to my study and moved to where I knew the front of the mirror was facing. Gazing toward the ink darkness where the mirror lay, I waited.

For approximately seventeen minutes, nothing happened. I did not move from my position, nor did I dare to breathe too loudly nor even blink very much. The air around me seemed to grow oppressively heavier and darker with each passing minute, and yet I did not stir. I felt as if the darkness was all-encompassing and searching for some trickery or deceit, yet I did not fidget. The ambient temperature grew colder and colder 'til it seemed as if I was back in the Antarctic wastes, yet I did not shiver.

Finally, a dim pinprick seemed to fade into view in front of me. This light grew slowly brighter as it illuminated the edge of the mirror, and then it drifted slowly, almost randomly, across the darkness, growing ever so slightly in size as it did. The orb did not shed light on anything beyond the mirror's edges and myself, yet it grew brighter than even the flame that ignites our sun, and indeed was brilliantly painful to gaze upon. Yet I found myself utterly drawn to it, for so entrancing and hypnotic were its movements. And throughout this, a subtle sound began to push through the room as if heard from some far-off locale. The sound was that of a whisper, but the peculiar quality it held was as if it were a thousand voices all at once in utter harmony. For our conversation, I provide a transcript below, for so is this impressed upon my mind.

VOICES: Ibit obednopser oge te, em a alutsop. Manirtcod tireauq iuq. Menif da madiuq sulupicsid ecce te.

MYSELF: I was directed to you by servants of other cults. I wish to ask a favour of you.

VOICES: Sireauq douq, tse ogre diuq? Ia! Ia Shub-Niggurath! Regin omoh tse te. Suila ivres abrev, ha.

MYSELF: I have heard that you are capable of visiting and seeing the dead. I ask therefore that I may see my wife again, and be allowed to be with her once more.

VOICES: Melatan mumisegaxes muut mutcelid et da.

MYSELF: Thank you for your mercy.

VOICES: Sutsef seid ihim ut. Siem siluco ni se cnun.

At that, I started and with a cry ran forth and pushed the mirror aside. As I did, a hiss came from the orb that seemed almost ready to burst forth from the glass, and then I heard the mirror shatter upon the floor. I switched on my study light and looked down to the remnants of the mirror. The crunch of glass under my feet echoed across the empty room as I reached down and, ignoring the small shards that sliced tiny cuts across my fingers, retrieved the drawing of that insidious being with whom I had just conversed. I could swear that the blank circle seemed to pulsate slightly within the darkness, but it is possible that such was merely the effect of the bright light upon my eyes. After this, I quickly swept away the glass shards and burnt the drawing in the fireplace, so unwilling was I to deal with such a villain again. But could its words be true? Could I really see my beloved Lizzie once again on my sixtieth birthday? And if so, was she really going to take me back with her? Could I not convince her to stay?

How it was that I understood those words, I do not know. I later found that they were Latin, but how I could tell through such conversation without prior knowledge, I do not know. I must demand that, if this work is made public by whoever finds this document, the words are not translated. If the reader wishes to translate them, they must do so themselves, for I wish only the more learned of individuals to understand what has happened, and so perhaps avoid the mistakes I made in my hubris.


	10. Final Last Words

And thus has the day come. It is the 22nd March 1936, with the time being 6:06pm as I write these last words. To know that my fate has been decided is oddly calming, especially if it means that I am to gaze once more upon my beloved Lizzie. To know that she will serve as my harbinger of fate is less calming, but I can only hope that she will be merciful or at least still retain some portion of her senses.

I have attempted to find some method to escape this since that day a little under ten years ago. Unfortunately, my efforts were in vain, although I have found out more since then. By taking the Sacrament of Withdrawn Darkness, a little-known rite performed by an even lesser-known sect of those who serve this being, I have found that it is one of the few that belongs to our dimension. I will enclose a section taken from the Sacrament within this sheaf of documents, in the hope that those who find this will be able to prevent the worship of the being any further and thus somehow draw its gaze away from us. I know that this will happen once mankind may gaze upon a mirror in the dark free of the fear of what may dwell beyond.

I hear now a leathery flapping sound, as of some great wings beating across the sky. It is 6:24pm, and a shape is drawing closer to my window. It looks like some mammoth bird, but as it draws closer its shape seems off somehow, as if…Oh GOD! It promised that she would come, and she has, draped over another! I CAN SEE THE BEAK PROTRUDING THROUGH HER FACE! It draws closer and I must write to document th- IT'S BROKEN THROUGH THE GLASS and it's staring at me with alien eyes and it's arms are openi- IT'S COMING CLOSER IT WANTS TO HOLD ME IN ITS ARMS the arms look strong and the skin has split slightly and there is some chitinous hide 'neath IT HAS GRABBED MY ARM I AM TRYING TO ESC-

_Editor's note: The writing trails off after that, as if Mr. Heighton-Lewis was dragged away. Investigators found a deep wedge corresponding with that of the pen used gouged into the desk along with several fingernail marks. The paper mentioned by Mr. Heighton-Lewis was found and has been printed on the next page. Some local farmers did claim to have witnessed a large flying creature heading toward and away from the manor, however such testimonies have not been taken seriously by investigators_


	11. The Encroaching Light

The Origins of Our Dark lord

And so it was that It came into existence. It dwelt within the voids that doth divide the Heavens, and It made Itself unto the image It beheld. For It gazed upon the worlds wrought, and It seethed with desire and purpose. It was borne of the same kind as the Elder Gods and the Old Ones who came later, and yet was It of a more conflicting nature. For where their plans and knowledge art little known and their motives unclear, yet their influence felt greatly upon Matter, It was little-known and worshipped by Matter, yet are its motives and plans made clear by those who are in the know.

For It doth hunger. Matter holds little attraction to It, but It doth desire what Matter doth carry within. When It did first make Itself known unto those of Matter, It did impress upon them Its image as that of a star twinkling in the dark; It did serve as a beacon toward those of Matter who felt most maligned by the alien schemes of the Elder Gods and the Old Ones. When Matter realised the true motives of It however, and knew of Its' lust for Matter's vital essence, then did Matter turn away and thus It did grow furious and ever hungrier.

It then grew devious. It formed alliances with Its' implacable brethren, and convinced them that their schemes may better work if all worked together against Matter. Thus did It allow Itself to be forgotten by all save the few of Matter that still loved It, and thus were Its' eldritch brothers and sisters able to once more form their cults among Matter and thus work their schemes into fruition. All that It asked was that some of those of Matter would be sacrificed to It and their essences given to sate Its' unending hunger, and thus did It now thrive, for all who die are now within Its' domain and forever consigned to serve as Its' eternal feast.

But there are rumours that It has grown tired of this game. Thus has It adopted a new name to serve as a warning to those that would stop It from returning. For It is The Encroaching Light, and all who gaze upon a mirror within the dark are said to gaze upon It in all Its' glory, and are thus bound to surrender themselves once It returns.


End file.
